pafp TWIN ELMS / winding up Sharppaw

[FERNDANCE]

[ set retro to snow melty momence! ]

The camp, a wonderful little place filled with endless potential for trickery and chaos, needed heavy maintenance after the snow had finally cleared from the den entrances. The pitter-patter of little paws wasn't enough to flatten the ground and make it easier to walk on, which meant digging through the fluffy flakes until the soil was visible underneath. She'd enlisted one of the apprentices for help, one she'd seldom had a chance to talk to with the events of the past moon. She gathered his name was Sharppaw, and gathered that he was a moodier cat, likely to take Ferndance's nature as a serious infraction more than the lighthearted fun she thought it was. The fear of being disliked would not stop the ticked tabby from doing what she wanted, and it was as they began wordlessly clearing the snow from the clearing that Fern began to mull over what she could do to cheer the smokey feline up. Dumping snow on her head would be too cruel. Talking was likely to shut Sharppaw down entirely. Mismatched paws dug through the snow like a rabbit and briefly, she grew distracted by the thought that WindClanners did this regularly. Lithe and graceful, she would likely be well-suited to the moors, but ShadowClan was her home, from now until her dying breath - not even the allure of new sights could stop that.

Emerald eyes briefly assessed Sharppaw's own snow pile, already bigger than hers for reasons she totally didn't have anything to do with and decided that she'd just continue what she'd already been doing. It may have been a waste of valuable time, but it likely kept Sharppaw away from other, stinkier apprentice duties (Fern knew she'd rather undertake the Sisyphean task of digging endless snow than remove ticks from elders again). Her attention wandered off to the rest of camp as she halted her shovelling mid-dig. "Oh wow..." She mewed, staring wide-eyed into empty space. "It looks like Pitchstar is up nice and early." Presuming her erroneous comment would be enough to distract the apprentice (and not checking to see if it actually did), the ticked tabby aimed to move a huge clump of snow into his pile whilst he wasn't looking. She'd then turn back to her own pile and continue mindlessly digging away, staring out of the corner of her eye to watch to see if Sharppaw had finally noticed that something was wrong with the snow.

@SHARPPAW.
​

 

[SHARPSHADOW]

† Sharppaw was growing tired of snow.

He has been for some time now, he realizes. The powder itself, nothing.... egregious. Nothing awful, he had not thought. A kit of Greenleaf, this Leaf-bare was his first. It's normal to be excited by your first signs of flurry, she thinks (she hopes). Snowflakes had settled on her nose without warning, and she'd stared. The marshland was always gloomy, but the snow had seemed to lift some of it away.

That very same snow then, very soon just became part of it. Bad associations. The freezing of water and the scarcity of prey. It'd wormed into her mind, wiggling discomfort that had her gritter her teeth. Still, just snow.

And so suddenly, it's much more than that. Whipped along the wind, flakes in her face, piled around their dens and the shell of Betonyfrost's ears. Swiftly, and effectively trapped overnight. And that was when... the hate was no longer tangential. What to them had only been smatters of flurries before, she realized, had been just this for the prey they were lacking. Unable to hop into their jaws, for their own dens and burrows were snowed in. Annoying. And of course– the wrath first struck down upon creatures too stupid to burrow their way out of it.

Tired of digging, tired already. What felt like ages had already been spent digging out their respective dens. All paws were cold and clammy, he was sure. But it never stopped, never stopped. If Windclan was good for nothing else, this they would be good for. If Pitchstar wasn't too busy dying, maybe he could have sent for help... ...That wasn't fair. But it's true.

His mindless task drones on and on. He's only dully aware of the warrior beside him. Her work was progressing. And that– that sounded stupid to think, but he can't help but feel like he's... not. Or at least, he hasn't been. But for once, it finally seems as if a dent has been made in this section. The warrior in question suddenly opens her mouth. Sharppaw only looked because he wasn't sure if Pitchstar was living or not...

A flash of brown in her peripheral, and Sharppaw is turning back. Ferndance continues to work, unhindered, her movements seamless. And his pile...

Sharppaw blinks, and now he's looking at her, brows furrowed and a frown worn deep. She glances back to her pile, and then, again to Ferndance. And her own pile. It was so– It was just– "S-shh..." odd sound from his mouth, the beginnings of a question, but it can't quite come out. Accusatory, Sharppaw's gaze does all in its power to burn holes in the warrior's skull. His digging is left abandoned, in favor for staring dead at brown ticked fur. "Y-you?"​

 

[Poppypaw ★]

"HALT, EVIL DOER!" Bursting forward, head first from the snowy bank nearby the two that had just recently been piled up and pushed aside out of the clearing just that morning, came Poppypaw's red capped head and wide copper eyes. The apprentice shoved herself through the hole she'd made, knocking snow down and scattering it back across the camp clearing with the speed and flailing about of her movements though some of it remained clumped in her fur comically like berries hanging from a particually fluffy bush. She had born witness to the crime, seen the dastardly prank played where she had been hiding and avoiding her mentor on the outskirts of the camp itself where the snow made a perfect little hill to scurry behind. Ferndance thought herself clever, but nothing could pass by Poppypaw's keen observation skills.
A white paw raised, clumped with dirty snow, in a point at the brown tabby in a blatant accusatory manner, "For your crimes! I sentence you to death!" Her paw dropped, as did her body low to the ground in what was very obviously a hunter's crouch and with a spring she threw herself face and chest first into the pile of snow that the warrior had been dilligently pushing up and out of the way; having missed the warrior herself as her intended target. A muffle, "HECK", rose up from the powdery depths and her tail lashed in annoyance. That would have been so cool if she hadn't lost her footing midjump and careened to the side. Now Sharppaw's honor would never be restored...

​